


Poetry

by ConfessionsOfAGeekyFangirl



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Love Poems, M/M, Oneshot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConfessionsOfAGeekyFangirl/pseuds/ConfessionsOfAGeekyFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A dreamy look suddenly crossed Jack’s features and David couldn’t help but find it somewhat beautiful. ‘A poet, huh?’ he said, and then paused, looking thoughtful. ‘I could be a poet.’”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry

Jack Kelly was never having another taste of alcohol ever again, if David had anything to do with it.

“But how do we know for sure that the papes don’t got feelings, too? Like, you think it hurts when they get crumpled up and thrown out? Do they feel sick when we’se wavin’ them around in the air?”

But, oh, was he enjoying this.

Jack had shown up on the fire escape long after sunset that evening, slurring his words and clutching a near-empty bottle of liquor, much to David’s dismay.

_“You’re staying here tonight,” he’d said sternly as soon as Jack stumbled in through the window._

_“But, Davey—”_

_“Don’t ‘but, Davey’ me, Jack. I am not going to let you go out and try to navigate your way through the streets of Manhattan in the dark when you can’t even keep your eyes from crossing. Now, come on.”_

_Jack rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mom.”_

This was precisely how David found himself staying up way too late on a Saturday night, sitting up on the foot of his bed with his arm draped around Jack’s shoulders while Jack leaned against him for support, resting his head in the curve of David’s neck.

“Do they get sad when we can’t get folks to buy ‘em? ‘Cause it ain’t like the rotten headlines are their faults.”

And as it turned out, Jack’s mind could go to some rather… _interesting_ places when he was intoxicated.

David listened intently to each word as Jack rambled on and on for what seemed like hours, a bemused grin playing on his lips.

“What’s this?” Jack suddenly asked, clumsily moving to lean over David’s lap and reach for something on the floor.

David blinked, slightly thrown off by the abrupt change in subject. “What’s what?” he responded, placing a hand on Jack’s forearm to steady him.

 _“This.”_ Jack grunted and pushed himself back up again before sticking the object right under David’s nose.

“Oh. Um, it’s _Leaves of Grass.”_ David had been reading it earlier. The book, of course, was quickly forgotten upon Jack’s arrival, and had probably fallen off of the bed at some point.

Jack pulled the worn hardcover away from David’s face and squinted at the words on the front, like he was having a hard time making them out. “Who’s…Walt Whitman?”

“He’s a poet,” David explained. “We, uh, we were studying him at school last year.”

A dreamy look suddenly crossed Jack’s features and David couldn’t help but find it somewhat beautiful. “A poet, huh?” he said, and then paused, looking thoughtful. “I could be a poet.”

David chuckled, despite himself. “Sure you could, Jack. Sure you could.”

Jack scowled. “I could, too!”

He let the book drop onto the comforter and leaned in close, close enough for David to smell the whiskey on his breath, and brought both of his ink-stained hands up around the back of David’s neck. And then he lowered his voice, as if he were revealing a great secret, and said, “I’d be the…the best damn poet in the whole entire world. Yeah, I’ll show you, Davey. I’mma write you a poem, and it’s gonna be the greatest poem you ever read. That’s what I’ll do.”

Sighing, David reached out and absentmindedly began to stroke some of Jack’s hair. “You’re drunk, Jack.”

 “So?” Jack countered, screwing up his face.

“You probably won’t even remember this come tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

 The next morning, David rolled over to find an empty space where a warm body should have been resting beside his. Frowning, David quickly sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his tired eyes before looking around the bedroom. It was early; too early—Sarah was still sleeping peacefully in her own bed and the apartment was completely silent—but Jack was nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, the sight of the open window caught David’s attention, and he let out a long, slow breath, slumping forward with relief. Jack had probably just gotten up at the crack of dawn, as per usual—David would never understand his love of mornings—and decided to leave. Maybe he’d awoken with a bad hangover and didn’t want to bother David with it, or…

That’s when David noticed the note resting on the pillowcase.

Confused, he picked it up and examined it carefully. It was nothing but a day-old, crumpled piece of news print, folded into a little square. On the front, scrawled out in large, block letters that David recognized as Jack’s handwriting, it read:

****

**_TO DAVY_ **

 

The words were written in smudged, black ink, probably from a pen that Jack had stolen from David’s desk. David carefully unfolded the paper to see what was inside.

**_  
_**

**_ A POME BY JACK KELLY _ **

**_~~ROSES~~ _ ** **_MY BANDANA IS RED_ **

**_YOUR EYES IS BLUE_ **

**_DAVID JACOBS I LOVE YOU_ **

****

That dork.

David laughed out loud, smiling fondly to himself and delicately tracing over the letters with his index finger as he read over them again and again.

That ridiculous, unbelievable, completely wonderful dork.

Jack had been right.

It was definitely the best poem he’d ever read.


End file.
